Hear You Me
by saxgirl42
Summary: It wasn’t raining. That was one of the first things I realized about the day that Roy Mustang was buried. Rated T for some gore and Ed's mouth.


_**Author's Note**:__ I rewarded myself for finishing two finals today by writing this drabble. I have no idea why it came out so sad. ... Meh._

_Yes, this is a death-fic. You have been warned. I think I write way too many of these, but hey - I don't decide what I write, my plot-bunnies do, and they were inspired by the song "Hear You Me" by Jimmy Eat World, so... voila! Death-fic!_

_Now, this is based in my semi-AU, so Al's body is back and Mustang is Fuhrer. It's the same AU that I use in my series but this has NOTHING to do with those stories._

_So now it's time for some shameless advertising! For those who have read my other FMA story called "Upon A Midnight Clear," the sequel is now officially in the works. It's called "Marching On" and the first chapter should be up in a week or so (hopefully) so keep an eye out!_

_I'm done taking up your time now. Just read and enjoy, and please leave some feedback! Thanks!_

_**Disclaimer:** Fullmetal Alchemist is owned by Arakawa Hiromu, and all lyrics belong to Jimmy Eat World._

o-o-o

**Hear You Me**

o-o-o

_There's no one in town I know_

_You gave us some place to go_

_I never said thank you for that_

_Thought I might get one more chance_

o-o-o

It wasn't raining. That was one of the first things I realized about the day that Roy Mustang was buried.

I had expected it to be raining. I had expected some torrential downpour to fit with the mood of the day. You know that cliché with funerals and rain? How whenever someone dies, the skies are supposed to open and weep or whatever? Yeah, well, it's false. The sky doesn't care.

When I woke up this morning and saw the sun shining brightly in my window, I pulled the covers over my face until all I could see was the darkness that was supposed to be outside.

"Brother, it's almost time. Get up," Al called. I didn't reply. Couldn't. This wasn't _right_. It should at least be raining...

I heard Al open my door and knew I must've looked pathetic, but I just didn't care.

"Brother..."

He walked over and sat on the bed beside me and pulled the blankets off my face. I saw that his eyes were already red from crying, and he was dressed in a formal black suit. My eyes were surprisingly dry.

"Brother, we have to go. The funeral begins in forty-five minutes, and Hawkeye needs you there early," Al said. I looked away from him, toward the window.

"It's nice out," I murmured.

"Yeah. Yeah, it's real nice."

"It shouldn't be nice out."

"I know, Brother. Let's go."

Al grabbed my hand and tugged me out of bed. He stuffed my arms with a towel and my clothes for the day. Black pants. Black jacket. Even a black dress shirt. Then he pushed me into the bathroom and shut the door behind me, and I thought I heard him sniffle when he walked away.

I took a cold shower to wake myself up. It didn't help much. I just came out shivering. I drew my hair into a neat tail and squeezed most of the water out, then slipped into the clothes Al had given me. I looked at myself in the mirror and was surprised to note that I looked older all in black. I had stopped wearing black for a while after getting Al's body back, even though I had worn almost nothing else before. In fact, after Mustang had been promoted to Fuhrer I had actually caved and started obeying the military dress code. Mustang had teased me about it to no end, but I couldn't help it. I thought I looked pretty damn snazzy in military blue.

I stopped myself there. It hurt to think of Mustang. It hurt to think of him not being around anymore. Stupid bastard, getting himself killed like that. Why the hell had he been on the front line anyway? Fighting was for soldiers, not leaders.

But then... Mustang always _had_ been a soldier.

I stopped myself again. It still hurt.

I left the bathroom and grabbed my silver watch from the bedside table, stuffing it into my pocket and looping the chain around so it stood out against the blackness of my pants. I fingered the chain lightly and looked out the window again. The sun was still shining. I cursed it.

Al was waiting by the front door with my black military-issue jacket. I took it from him and slipped it on, hating it. It made me think of Mustang. He had come with me to the fitting, making fun of my size the whole time. I could remember him joking with the tailor, but as soon as it was done and I was waiting at the counter to pay for it he had come up behind me and placed a firm hand on my shoulder, all supportive and smiling.

It had been nice.

"Let's go, Al," I said.

The walk to the church was uneventful and quiet. I watched people going about their business and envied them. They had no funeral to attend.

We passed stores and restaurants, and everything reminded me of Mustang. I had grabbed lunch with him at that café. He had managed to snag a date with the waitress before our main course came. I had called him a hopeless pervert and he had laughed and accused me of being jealous.

There was the tailor, where I had gotten my jacket.

The train station, which was the first place I had seen his true power. In fact, I had been there so often with him, heading out on political trips and even a couple personal vacations... it physically hurt me to look. I turned away.

The church was surrounded by military personnel. They recognized me and let Al and I through without question. Hawkeye found us. She looked terrible. Her blonde hair was limp and falling out of its clip. Her eyes were red and puffy. Her suit was slightly crooked. She didn't look like Riza Hawkeye.

"Come with me, please, Ed," she said, and her voice sounded like it was muffled by a wet cloth. She grabbed my hand and pulled me along with her toward a group of men I recognized. Havoc. Fuery. Breda. Falman. They all looked miserable without their leader.

I got my orders from Hawkeye and went back to Al. I was to be a pallbearer or something. Hawkeye told me it was an honor. I thought it would be more of an honor if Mustang had been there to ask me personally. It was a ridiculous thought, but I had it nonetheless.

Some would say the service was beautiful. Al cried quietly the whole time, but I didn't judge him. He held my hand like he had done when we were little. My eyes were still surprisingly dry.

It was sunny when Havoc, Breda, Falman and I carried Mustang out of the church. The blue skies pissed me off.

We loaded the coffin into the waiting black car and saluted as it pulled away. It pained me to see a single tear roll down Havoc's cheek mid-salute. It wasn't right, but he didn't wipe it away. He just kept saluting – as we all did – until the black car passed out of sight.

I returned to Al's side as soon as my job was done and we piled into a car with Hawkeye and the men to head to the cemetery.

The guns' salute cracked almost too loudly through the quiet morning as Mustang's sleek casket was lowered into the ground. I saw women jump at the sound. Little Elysia had her ears covered. Even some of the soldiers winced, but I knew it was not because the noise frightened them.

I wanted to wince, too. I wanted to wince because the sound brought me back to the last time I had seen my Fuhrer alive.

It had been during the war, of course. I had been stationed near him at his request (another honor, of course, according to Hawkeye), and he had asked to speak with me just before the third large battle.

"I'm going out," he had stated firmly.

"What?" I had snapped. "Hawkeye told you _specifically_ not to! It's too dangerous! Do you know how many of those soldiers are after your head?"

"Probably all of them," Mustang had said with a wry grin, pacing over to the entrance of the tent. "But I'm a _soldier_, Fullmetal. I can't stay behind the lines forever. I'll go mad."

I had thought about talking him out of it. I had thought about pulling the responsibility card, the "I'll tell Hawkeye" card, and any other card I could think of. But then... then I had understood. I knew that if someone had been insisting that _I_ stay out of the fighting while my men were dying and I knew I could help, I would never have stood by.

"Whatever you say, O Great Fuhrer," I had said with a smirk. "Just don't get yourself killed. Hawkeye will have my head."

He had grinned at that.

"I promise I'll be careful."

That was when we had heard the first spattering of gunfire. Mustang's grin had widened. He had grabbed his coat, tugged on his gloves, and turned to me with dark eyes flashing.

"Ready, Fullmetal?"

Al nudged me and my attention was brought back to the funeral.

"What?" I asked, realizing he had said something.

"Are you ready, Brother?" he asked again. I frowned at him.

"Ready for what?" I asked.

"To speak. It's almost your turn."

I looked over at the grave and saw that those close to Mustang were saying respectful words before tossing dirt onto the casket. It was symbolic, I guess. I numbly approached the group, not even knowing what I would say. What _could_ I say? That I had been with him when he died? That I had heard and seen the shot that killed him? That I had watched the life flow out of him? That I had witnessed the light fade from his eyes? That _I_ had immediately killed the one who killed him?

None of it seemed right, but I had run out of time to think. It was my turn.

I scooped up some dirt in my hand and let it sift through my fingers. Always though my fingers...

"MUSTANG!" I had screamed as soon as I saw him get hit. There had been too many people in the way. I knocked them down, reached him before anyone else. He was bleeding from a wound in his chest. I ripped away a part of my shirt and held it to the wound to stop the blood.

"Someone get help!" I yelled. But there was a battle going on and no one heard.

"Fuck!" I yelled. "Damn it, Mustang, you promised you'd be careful!" He grinned at me shakily.

"S-sorry, Ed," he gasped. "I was aiming for the general... didn't see the gun."

"It doesn't matter! Just stop bleeding!" I shouted, pressing harder. Mustang winced. How could no one notice that the fucking _Fuhrer_ was wounded?! "HAVOC!" I cried. "HAWKEYE!" God, who else would be around?

The blood was seeping out around his trembling body and I realized that the bullet had gone all the way through. Panic seized me. I forgot what to do. The blood began to flow out the entry wound, too, as the pressure lessened. My hands were shaking. The blood was seeping through my fingers, and I couldn't contain it, he was going to die damn it Mustang don't die don't die so much blood why can't I stop it don't die –

"Edward?"

I looked up from my dirty fingers and met the kind eyes of the priest.

"Would you like to say something?" he asked softly. I looked down at the dirt-covered casket in the ground. I tipped the rest of the dirt out of my hand and watched it fall.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm sorry."

Mustang had died there. Lying on the dirt, bleeding out through my fingers, in the middle of a battle he should not have been fighting in the first place. Part of me hated him for being taken down by a single bullet. He wasn't supposed to be so... human. So vulnerable.

I killed the enemy soldier who had shot him. He had been about my age and he had been stunned to find that he, a lowly infantryman, had managed to kill the Fuhrer of Amestris. I didn't let him revel in it long.

I didn't even clean the blood from my automail when it was done. I went back to Mustang and watched over his body until Hawkeye found us. I could tell she was in pain. I think I may have been, too, but I couldn't feel much. Just the blood on my hands and the heavy weight in my chest.

Al walked up to the grave and took my hand once the gravediggers started to cover the casket with dirt. He led me away from the crowd and smiled softly.

"You might get that rain yet, Brother," he said. I looked up at the sky and saw dark clouds approaching. For some inane reason, it made me feel better.

It should be raining.

Mustang deserved that, at the very least.

He deserved the rain.

It hadn't been until after I got back from the front that I learned he was to be given great honors for his death, and not only because he was the Fuhrer. On the one day he died, he had torched seventeen of the twenty-one enemy commanding officers. _Seventeen_. And he had been aiming for number eighteen when that damn lieutenant had seen him.

Needless to say, the war hadn't lasted long after that day. We accepted the enemy's complete surrender less than a week later.

I heard a crack of thunder in the distance and someone at the funeral said it looked like rain. They began to pack up. I stayed put, watching them scurry away. I would stay.

"Are you coming?" Al asked me. I shook my head.

"No, you go on ahead."

"Okay," he said, but his eyes were worried. "Just remember everyone is meeting at the Hughes' for lunch afterwards." I nodded and waved him off with a forced smile. I think that made him more nervous than anything, but he went nonetheless.

I trudged back over to the beautifully engraved tombstone. It was white marble, and only came up to my waist. Hawkeye knew Mustang wouldn't have wanted anything too extravagant.

Here lies Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist and Fuhrer of Amestris, beloved by all and cut down before his time and whatnot. It made me sick. Whoever carved this probably knew nothing about him. They didn't know the exact pitch of his voice. They didn't know the scent of his cologne, or the chafing sound his gloves made when he was upset and trying resist snapping. They didn't know the precise way he signed his name, the way he walked with a slight swagger sometimes, the way he laughed when no one was watching.

The thunder was closer now, and approaching fast. The sun was gone. I could feel the cool breeze already whipping my hair against my face and dislodging some of the newly packed dirt over the grave. I kicked the tombstone lightly.

"Bastard," I said, but there was no venom in it.

The first drops of rain began to fall. I closed my eyes. I saw Mustang, as I'd always remember him. Smirking. Confident. A magnificent bastard.

I knew my dry eyes wouldn't last long, but now the rain covered my tears. It felt better to know someone up there cared. The sky was weeping, and now I could, too.

Mustang deserved the rain.

He deserved at least that much.

o-o-o

_What would you think of me now?_

_So lucky, so strong, so proud_

_I never said thank you for that_

_Now I'll never have a chance_

_May angels lead you in..._

o-o-o


End file.
